


Let Me Help You

by oh_wardenmywarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Past Abuse, Romance, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 04:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_wardenmywarden/pseuds/oh_wardenmywarden
Summary: Hawke and Fenris are developing some sort of relationship. Hawke has no idea what that relationship actually is. Expect plenty of fluff, plenty of angst, and plenty of brooding.I will always tag for violence/etc. that I know are present in the relationship.





	1. A Look of Trust

Hawke stood outside her estate, hands on her hips, and grinned at the heavy wooden door she had just adorned with a decorative wreath. "Done!" she exclaimed. She glanced down at Varric, who was looking at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Congratulate me, Varric. I'm all moved in!" The excitement in her voice was palpable. The wreath was more to her than just a frilly decoration. It was indication that Hawke and Leandra were putting down roots. After so many years on the run, or working as indentured mercenaries, or worst of all, living with Gamlen, this felt monumental. "In fact, I think you should throw me a housewarming party," she told her friend.

Varric rolled his eyes at her. "Need I remind you how long you've actually lived here, Hawke?" he asked. "Just because it took you six months to unpack three boxes doesn't mean I should throw you a party." His familiar chuckle followed his joke, and he laid a hand on Hawke's arm. "Really, though. I'm proud of you, kid."

Hawke smiled at him again. She didn't think there was much that could make that smile leave her face today. Yes, she and Leandra had moved into the estate some time ago, but Hawke felt like they actually lived there now. She turned from the door to take in her surroundings. Hightown, with its bustling market and stuffy clientele. If someone had come up to her three years ago and told her she'd soon be living in Hightown, she'd have smacked them over the head with her staff. _Apostate, remember?_

"Alright, Hawke, I'm headed back to the Hanged Man," Varric said with another pat to her arm. "Bianca's got an appointment with a dwarf who owes someone some money. She won't tell me who." He winked at her and took his leave, but not before they made plans to meet up for a pint later.

As Hawke watched Varric go, her bright blue eyes took in the scene around her. Off in the distance, she caught sight of the all-too-familiar road that led to Fenris' mansion. She often fought the urge to go there just to spend time with him. She cared for him a great deal, but as far as she could tell, he did not share her affections. They had flirted a few times, Hawke much more directly than Fenris, but nothing ever came of it. In any case, she enjoyed his company, and she didn't have anything going on that brisk afternoon. She found her feet carrying her in the direction of his home, the one she had ransacked with him all that time ago. Since they had added Fenris to their ragtag team, things had never been dull. How could they, when her heart did flips every time she was near him?

She calculated the time it took to walk from her door to his -- thirteen minutes -- and when she arrived, she ran her slender fingers through her short black hair and took a deep breath. She knocked on the door once, twice, but finally just let herself in. It wasn't like he wouldn't do the same.

"Hello, neighbor," she called out, to avoid startling him when she found him. "I've brought you...nothing!"

"In here," his deep voice called back, and caused Hawke's stomach to lurch just a little. She followed the voice in to the kitchen, where Fenris was stood over a pot. To his left, there sat a cluster of ingredients that absolutely did not look like they belonged together -- carrots, apples, a hunk of nug meat, and some sort of brownish plant that most definitely looked like a weed. In one hand, he held a knife. In the other, a cookbook.

"Looks delicious," Hawke said. "What do you call this dish?"

"I don't know," Fenris grumbled. His eyebrows furrowed together in frustration as he glanced at the cookbook. "I don't know how to cook for myself. That wasn't exactly my job when I was with Danarius. And if I have to eat at the damned Hang Man one more time..." he ended his sentence in a disgusted grunt.

He snapped the cookbook shut and smacked it down on the counter right in front of Hawke. "But I'm still working on...reading." There was a hesitancy to his voice, now, that wasn't there before. Hawke felt her heart softening as she looked at him. Her typical tendency to make light of everything usually abandoned her when she was with Fenris. Not as if she didn't joke around him -- in fact, she loved little more than making Fenris laugh -- but he brought out a tender side in her that no one else ever had.

She came around to the side of the counter where he stood and looked up at him. The look in his dark green eyes nearly knocked her off-balance. A look of vulnerability. A look of trust.

"Mother always told me not to trust anything in a cookbook, anyway," Hawke said, waving her hand in the air as if dismissing the very notion. "She's taught me a few Fereldan recipes, if you don't mind the taste of, well, dirt," she joked, and was rewarded with a crooked smile and a chuckle from Fenris.

"Surely it is better than the taste of Hanged Man Rat," he replied, a lightness returned to his voice.

"Let me help you," Hawke suggested. Her tone was delicate, though, not forceful. She knew that Fenris abhorred being helped, even in a situation such as this. _Let me help you,_ she thought, _in more ways than one._

She let her hand move towards his, the one holding the knife. She kept her pale, sun-kissed skin a quarter of an inch above the brown and white of his. She was always careful not to touch him without his permission. She knew the lyrium caused him pain from the few times he had shared with her about his past. She would never willingly cause him pain. Danarius, on the other hand, if and when they ever met, was a different story.

They stood like that for a minute. This was more than just about cooking, Hawke knew. She could feel it in the air between them, unspoken words of promises and friendship and betrayal and pain. The individual pasts that neither of them could escape. Those unspoken words and unwanted memories always snuck their way into the spaces between Hawke and Fenris.

Hawke raised her eyes to look into his again. She could feel the heat of his skin underneath hers. They weren't even standing that close together, save for their hands, but nevertheless Hawke could feel her heart picking up speed. They looked at each other for one, two, thirty, a hundred million seconds. Just as Hawke was about to withdraw her hand and break the eye contact, Fenris gave her a slight nod.

"Very well," he said, his voice deep and low and, dare she think it, sultry? He relinquished the knife to her and she sprung back to life.

"Wonderful. First, Fereldan stew. Tomorrow, we read. But not that damned cookbook."

And they got to work.


	2. Just Stay With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's feelings for Fenris haven't gone away, but she refuses to do anything about it until she knows he feels the same way.

Hawke made her way across Lowtown, careful not to make eye contact with anyone she passed. Night had settled over the city, and the full moon illuminated the cobbled street in front of her. She tugged the hood of her cloak over her eyes as she passed a small crowd of people. She didn't have her face adorned with her typical swipe of red. She was anonymous.

A night like this, calm and bright, usually meant that the thieves and blood mages stayed in whatever holes they usually crawled from. Instead, the streets were littered with beggars, children in rags, their mothers and fathers past the point of desperation. Hawke stopped here and there and pressed silver coins into the kids' outstretched hands. It never felt like she could do enough for all of the people in this town. She liked to help people -- even if she didn't always do it in the best way -- but her heart tugged even more than usual when she saw a child with a dirty face and a distended belly.

Hawke shook her head and tried to put it out of her mind. She couldn't do anything to help all the children of Kirkwall tonight; it would have to wait. She pulled her hood off, fixed a grin on to her face, and slammed open the door to her destination for the evening -- the one and only Hanged Man. Her friends were there already, gathered around a large table. Hawke watched for a few moments as they passed drinks around and joked with one another. A genuine smile reached her eyes as she took them in, the merry band of misfits she had brought together. They looked like a family. Nowadays, they even felt like a family.

"Always have to make an entrance, Hawke!" Varric shouted at her from across the room.

"Oh, you know me," she called back. "Drama. Suspense. Mystery." She made her way to the table. On her way to her seat, she clapped Anders on the back and ruffled Merrill's hair. It was only when she moved to sit down did she recognize that the one empty chair left for her was right next to Fenris.

"Hello, Hawke," he said, his voice calm and smooth as ever. In the cacophony of clinking bottles and shouting voices in The Hanged Man, Fenris' voice was a refuge. "Ready to lose? Again?" Fenris chuckled at his own joke, a quirk that Hawke found so endearing she thought her heart might give out.

"Me? Lose at Wicked Grace? You must be joking." Hawke rolled her eyes and tossed her coin purse onto the table. She leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, and winked at Fenris. "Deal me in, Anders."

Hawke was, in fact, horrible at Wicked Grace. Two hands in and she'd lost three sovereigns, owed Aveline two bottles of wine, and somehow lost a bet to Isabela that involved switching living quarters for a week. By the end of the night, a flush brightened her cheeks and her grin was easy, not forced. Despite everything that happened since she arrived in Kirkwall, at least she had these people around her.

"Alright, fearless leader," Isabela slurred to Hawke as the group packed up. "Go enjoy your last night in that comfy mansion of yours. I'll be there to take over at noon sharp."

Hawke laughed and rolled her eyes at her friend. "Aye, Captain," she teased. She waved at the group and made her way to the door, more unsteady on her feet than usual. Maybe she'd had more to drink that she thought. She shook her head and fixed her eyes on the door, determined to make it outside without stumbling.

"Want company on your way back to Hightown?" asked Fenris. "We are neighbors, after all. As you so often remind me."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Sure," she responded, "I wouldn't want you to get lost."

They walked out together, and cold air bit at Hawke's ears. She furrowed her eyebrows at the feel of it and drew her cloak closer to her.

"Not a fan of the cold?" Fenris asked. They fell in step together towards Hightown.

Hawke shook her head. "There's a reason I'm always shooting fireballs out of my hands," she joked. She was well past the point of feeling awkward about being a mage around Fenris. Since she had moved to Hightown, and especially since the day she started to help him learn to read, they had formed an easy, even comfortable, friendship. Not to say that Hawke's other feelings towards him had gone away -- in fact, they had swelled so much that she got a lump in her throat every time she spoke to him -- but she respected him too much to say anything about it. He didn't need a woman throwing herself at him. He needed trust and stability. If he felt the same way, he would say something. She hoped.

They wandered through the streets of Kirkwall and discussed the state of the Carta and the increasingly tense situation with the Arishok. She was never more at ease than when she was with him. Even as they spoke about the issues they were facing, the very issues that put their lives on the line day in and day out, she felt calm.

In what seemed like minutes, they approached the entrance of her home. Everyone would be asleep by now; Leandra, Bodhan and Sandal weren't people Hawke would describe as exciting. She looked up at Fenris and an overwhelming sense of longing washed over her. She didn't want this evening to end.

Before she could even think of a clever way to spend more time with him, he spoke up. "Well, we didn't have to kill anyone on our way back."

"An improvement from most nights," she replied. "Should we celebrate with a nightcap? I have to wash the taste of the Hanged Man swill out of my mouth before I can sleep."

Fenris' face broke into a crooked smile. "Lead the way."

Hawke and Fenris climbed the stairs to her sitting room. She poured them each a glass of whiskey and handed Fenris' to him before she plopped down on the sofa. She patted the cushion next to her, inviting him to sit down. He settled in closer to her than she thought he would. Her breath caught in her throat, and she prayed that he couldn't see the sweat start to bead at her brow.

"Hawke," he said, abruptly, and sat his drink on the side table. "Can I --" he cleared his throat. "Can I try something?" He had lowered his voice, and the syllables of each of his words were rhythmic, almost musical. Hawke caught his forest-green eyes with hers. She searched there for something, though she didn't know what, and fought the urge to make a joke. _Not the time. He's serious,_ she berated herself. Instead, she nodded.

"Let me see your hand," he said, his voice closer to a whisper now. She was mesmerized. They were facing each other, both of them cross-legged. She tugged her one leather glove off and balanced her hand on her knee, palm up. She wondered if he could tell she was shaking.

His eyes darted from her bright blue ones, to her hand, to her eyes again. With precision and assurance, he stretched his long, slender fingers out towards hers. She watched them, watched his tendons strain underneath taught skin. Before she knew it, the tips of his fingers met hers, and he brought them down to stroke her palm. He slowly, delicately, laced their hands together. The touch of her skin, or maybe the magic that lived just below it, made his lyrium marks glow, faint but pulsing. Hawke's breath grew shallow, the desire she felt for him crawling through her belly and setting fire to her chest. She fought the urge to kiss him right then and there.

Instead, she let his hands explore hers. First he was tracing her palms, then the backside of her hands, both of them. He kept one of his hands locked with one of hers, but let the other run up to her shoulder, up her neck, tangled in her hair for a split second, then back to her face to cup her chin.

Hawke held his gaze, then, as his hand so tenderly, cautiously, held her face. "Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice low and insistent. She didn't want to break the careful balance they had struck this evening. She didn't want to talk about it -- she wanted to sit like this forever. Hawke knew, now, that he at least somewhat felt the same was as she did, but she didn't want to push it.

Fenris shook his head. "No. Only a little."

Hawke looked down at his lips, full and parted, and then back into his eyes. "Can I try something?" she asked. "You can say no. I don't want to...to make you uncomfortable." Hawke was sure she never felt so vulnerable in her life.

He nodded. His eyes never left hers. Her hand fell to his knee. She felt her eyes shut. She leaned in and kissed him.

It was fleeting, but it was everything she hoped it would be. She felt her face flush, and she gripped his knee tighter than she meant to. His hand clutched at hers, and the hand that had cupped her chin now ran to the nape of her neck and tugged at her short black hair.

The kiss lasted only a moment, but Hawke never felt so blissful.

When it was over, they sat there, on Hawke's sofa, and Hawke took in Fenris' expression. "Was that okay?" she asked. "I'm sorry if I --" she was interrupted by his voice, now truly a whisper.

"Do not ever apologize for that, Hawke." He said it to her as if it were a secret.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Good. I'm not sorry at all."

He smiled, too, but he began to pull back from her. His hand left her neck, and he inched away so that their knees were no longer touching, but he kept his other hand intertwined with hers.

"Don't go, Fenris," she breathed. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of his absence. "Just stay with me."

He didn't go. Hawke traced tiny circles on Fenris' soft brown skin, a spot where no lyrium marks scarred his flesh. They fell asleep like that, and did not stir until dawn broke the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was much more difficult for me to write than the last one, so my apologies in advance if it seems a little more rough! This paves the way for future chapters that I am really excited about, though, so I wanted to get it to you as soon as possible. Plus I actually really liked the way the end turned out. As always, comments/kudos/constructive feedback always keep me going!


	3. Take All the Time You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris have some feelings to deal with. Too bad Hawke and Fenris are both really bad at feelings.

Two days had passed since the game of Wicked Grace and Hawke had not seen or heard from Fenris. She chewed her nails as she sat at the bar of the Hanged Man with Varric. She trusted the others with her life, but not with this information. The dwarf was the only of her friends that she trusted with her biggest secrets -- ironic, considering how big his mouth usually was.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Varric sighed. "Broody does this sometimes. Remember after we killed that group of Tal Vashoth and he disappeared for a week?"

Hawke shrugged. "That was different," she said. "This is all different now." She summoned the bartender over and ordered a pint for herself and Varric. "And if I can't solve the problem by talking to him," she declared, "I'll solve it by drinking."

The morning after he had spent the night on her couch, she and Fenris had engaged in some incredibly awkward small talk before he left her mansion. He had muttered something about being busy for the next couple of days before he slipped out the door. Hawke had stared after him, shocked. Now, two days later, her head hurt from how many times she'd run through the scenario. Had she said something wrong? Was her morning breath that bad? Did Fenris even like her as a person, let alone anything else?

Insecurity was not a feeling Hawke was familiar with. The more she thought about it, the more the insecurity grew, until it resembled shame. It sat heavy in her belly. She half-wished the whole thing had never happened, but she couldn't shake the memory of his skin on hers, his deep voice a whisper against her ear, the shock that had run down her spine when they kissed.

Not that Hawke told any of this to Varric. Even he, her most trusted companion, received the jovial, trivialized, Hawke-ified version of the tale. He came over, had a drink, and he spent the night. Nothing happened. But I haven't heard from the bastard in two days or something along those lines. Enough that Varric knew that it bothered her, but not how much. She wouldn't burden others with feelings she barely understood herself.

After only one pint and about a hundred thoughts, Hawke bid her goodbyes to Varric. It was a rare moment that Hawke felt like being alone, but she couldn't get Fenris out of her head and she hated being a buzzkill. She made her way, slowly, back towards Hightown.

Evening had settled over Kirkwall as Hawke approached her home. The sky was a soft purple, and Hawke could make out a few stars above the horizon. She took a deep breath as she braced herself to go back in to her estate -- empty, as always, these days, with Leandra out making nice with the nobles and Bodhan and Sandal selling their goods, too early in the evening for any of them to be back yet. It was so different than the cramped, boisterous household where she and the twins were raised. She missed the small, cluttered house, the smell of stew that never quite went away. She missed Carver and Bethany and her father. She missed Ferelden, and she missed having a family.

She laid gloved hand on the door handle just as she heard a deep, familiar voice. "Hawke. Walk with me." She turned her head just enough to see Fenris out of the corner of her eye. The feelings of shame and regret rushed up through her belly and into her head, like she had caught fire.

"Nice of you to show up and let me know you're not dead," she said, her hand still on the doorknob. "I'll be sure to tell the others."

"I apologize," he replied. He moved a step closer to her. "I shouldn't have disappeared like that."

Hawke turned to look at him again. His eyes were trained to her face. _Maker, why does he have to look like that?_ she thought.

"You're right. You shouldn't have. I was worried," she confessed, although there was dishonesty in what she was worried about.

"Walk with me," he repeated. "I want to talk about...the other night."

Without a word, Hawke turned from the door and followed him through the streets of Hightown. They walked past the market, and she watched as the merchants packed up their wares. The silence between them now wasn't as comfortable as it normally was. It was stifling and claustrophobic. Hawke cracked her knuckles, laced her fingers together, stuffed her hands in her pockets -- anything to keep her busy while she waited for Fenris to say something.

She finally lost patience as they rounded the same merchant's booth for the third time. "I thought you wanted to talk about it?" she asked, her voice firm.  
He walked them over to a pair of pillars and stopped them there so he could lean against one. Hawke crossed her arms and stared at his forehead. She couldn't make eye contact with him.

"It should not have happened, Hawke," he said, his voice low.

Hawke's heart took to a gallop and she felt her whole face get hot. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. It felt like someone had sucker-punched her in the gut.

"I wanted to tell you now before it got...out of hand," he continued. She could feel him trying to catch her gaze.

"You're the one who started it, Fenris," she said. She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. Her heart hammered in her ears.

"I know. It was a mistake."

At that, she finally looked at him. "A mistake? Do you really think that?"

He nodded.

"Fenris, you can't tell me that you didn't feel what I felt." The words slipped out before she could stop them. She was sure she must be shouting now. "That wasn't nothing. That wasn't a mistake."

"The alcohol and the late hour got to our heads," he said, his voice rough now. "I had too much to drink. So did you. That is all."

She couldn't help it -- hot tears sprung to her eyes even as she bit back her emotions. With gritted teeth, she made noise of built up frustration and anger. She was always so careful to watch her temper around Fenris, but in that moment, her pride took over. Her emotions brimmed to the surface, hot and unrelenting.

"Why are you doing this?" she insisted. Her hands shook.

"I just -- we can't. You and I are...we're wrong for each other."

"How can you say that, after everything we've been through together?"

"I just know," he said, his eyes finally leaving hers. "I don't want to hurt you, Hawke." His voice was heavy with emotion.

"Well you are," she spat. "Is this because I'm a mage? Please don't tell me this is because I'm a mage." She was talking around a lump in her throat now.

"Can you blame me, after everything Danarius has put me through?" he demanded.

She stood in front of him, in shock, every muscle in her body tense. "I am not Danarius," she said. She took a step closer to him. "I would never hurt you. I promise, I would never hurt you."

He looked at her again, his eyes softer now. "That isn't the only reason, Hawke. I can't ask you to throw your life away for me."

Her eyebrows came together, her lips pursed in determination. "I'm a grownup, Fenris. I can make my own decisions. I've already made my decision. But clearly, so have you."

She knew that if she continued this conversation, she would say something or do something she would regret. She took a deep breath and walked past him.

Before she could get anywhere, she felt his strong hand grab her arm and pull her back. She spun to look at him. He turned her so that she was pressed up against the pillar, and then his lips were on hers.

The kiss was intense, heated, rough. She brought her hands to his back, pulled him closer. His hands clutched at her hair and her waist. Their teeth knocked together as she opened her mouth to let his tongue explore it.

They pulled apart a few desperate minutes later. Hawke studied him, tried to read his expression. She watched his chest rise and fall. She wanted to rip his shirt off.

"I'm sorry," he said. He still stood over her, so close that she could kiss him again if she wanted to, his hands pressed against the pillar on either side of her head. His breath was hot on her face.

"Don't ever apologize for that, Fenris," she replied, the same line he had given her the other night. Her heart had not slowed, but some of the weight had abandoned her chest. She pressed her forehead to his. "So much for trying to get rid of me," she breathed.

"I need to...I have to think about this," he sighed.

"Take all the time you need," Hawke said. She was confused and exhilarated, but she knew one thing for sure -- he felt the same way about her. He had to. He didn't have alcohol to blame this time. Right? "But let's go think about it over a fight with some bandits, shall we? Isabela and Aveline are waiting for me to clear up some problems, as usual."

If Hawke dealt with one more feeling this evening, she was sure she would simply disintegrate. Fighting, she could deal with. For now, love would have to wait. For both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out angstier than I intended it to. Things are about to get real dysfunctional for them real fast...bbs need to learn how to talk things out. And they will! Just not any time soon. I busted this one out pretty quickly because I've been thinking about it all weekend, so I apologize if it seems rushed or sloppy.
> 
> As always, constructive feedback/comments/etc. are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	4. Ambushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the toughest battle the Kirkwall crew has fought yet, Hawke and Fenris become closer than ever through a combination of over-exhaustion, medicine, and near-death experiences. Hey, they never claimed to be functional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence

Hot, metallic blood ran from Hawke’s forehead and into her mouth. She grimaced at the taste of it; the familiar tang only told her that she had been hit. Hard. 

“Anders!” she yelled at her fellow mage, who was standing a few yards behind the rest. “A little help would be _great!_ ”

Anders nodded her way, and before she knew it she felt the cool touch of healing magic against her temple. Not as effective as it would have been if he was standing closer, but helpful nonetheless. 

The four of them had been ambushed. Aveline had sent for Hawke, and the younger woman was on her way to Hightown with Fenris, Anders, and Varric when a massive group of Carta Loyalists descended on them.

“Good thing I never travel alone! And you boys call me ‘codependent,’” she had joked at the time. 

Now, the situation looked much more dire. Each of her companions was bloodied to some extent. Hawke stood in the middle of the pack, not the ideal place for a mage. 

She shot a fireball at a group of three dwarves and sent them to their feet. “Thin out the pack that’s coming from that alley, Varric!” she shouted. Her request was met with a hail of arrows flying over her head.

It wasn’t the skill or strength of the attackers that worried Hawke; they weren’t all that adept, and she knew her friends would be able to deal with them under normal circumstances. It was the sheer number of them that frightened her. They hadn’t had time to set up an attack formation, and now they couldn’t get on top. There were too many of them. 

Hawke and her friends had been in enough street fights to know they needed signals. Luckily, and much to Hawke’s chagrin, Aveline had insisted that they come up with a cue to retreat. Hawke wasn’t one to back away from a fight, but today was different. They weren’t equipped, they weren’t prepared, and they had taken too much of a beating at the front end of the attack. 

A quick glance around the area told Hawke that everyone was in close enough proximity to fall back. Anders was still situated behind the rest as he cast healing spells at an unmatchable pace. Varric and Bianca worked at taking out one Carta member at a time; he struggled to reload her without getting overrun. Fenris, his height, strength, and finesse with a sword always a beacon to their enemies, was surrounded on every side. He swung his weapon in a wide arc and knocked three dwarves straight to their feet. He looked over and grinned at Hawke, but not before she noticed yet more enemies approach him.

She sprayed a cone of ice out of her staff to paralyze the three rogues closest to her. It did little to slow them down; she was out of energy and out of lyrium potions.

She let out a sharp whistle, three different notes, that signified it was time to escape. She stepped back, quickly, in Anders’ direction. Her eyes were trained on the mess in front of her -- dead bodies were scattered everywhere. Blood seeped into the cobblestones around her feet. Fenris and Varric tucked their weapons closer to their sides, in a defensive position. There were only six or so Carta members left alive, and it didn’t look like any more were on their way. Hawke turned on her heel and sprinted towards Anders. 

“Broody?” Varric called out. 

Hawke whipped her head around to see what happened. Fenris sank to the ground, both hands clutched to his stomach. His knees hit the cobblestone and he crumpled. His lyrium marks went dull. A dwarf stood behind him, bloody dagger in hand, and grinned at the work he had done.

A wordless, guttural scream ripped from Hawke’s throat. Something akin to strength rose from deep in her belly, fueled by rage, and erupted out through the top of her staff. She raced back down the alley, one hand clenched tight around her weapon, the other balled up into a fist. She doused the first Carta Loyalist she saw in fire and sent a fireball roaring towards two others, who had tried their best to escape the area.

She had no more magic left to conjure, but she was close enough to the last two dwarves. In one fluid motion, she crouched, extended her staff, and swept in half circle. Both of them were instantly knocked off of their feet. She kicked one of them and hit the other with the blunt end of her weapon so that the breath was knocked out of each of them, too.

“Varric, take care of them,” she snarled. She rushed over to Fenris and fell to the ground next to him. Anders was already there, knelt close to the wound. Hawke’s hands immediately busied themselves. One of them stroked his face while the other checked for a pulse at his neck. She couldn’t find one.

“Is he breathing?!” she shouted at Anders. “I can’t feel his pulse.”

“Yes, Hawke,” he said, but his voice was distant as he concentrated. 

“Why can’t I feel his pulse?” She could feel her own voice going up in volume and in pitch.

“It’s faint. He is losing blood. And you are panicking,” he responded. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. 

“Can I help? Are you helping him?” She tried to force herself to be calm, but she knew she failed. She swore her heart was in her mouth at this point. It was difficult for her to speak.  
“You can help by staying there and keeping quiet. I cannot concentrate when I know you are suffering. I will do what I can here, but we need to get him to my clinic right away.”

Varric came up behind Hawke and laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be alright, kid,” he soothed. “Fenris is strong. He’ll come out of this better than ever, you’ll see.”

Hawke gritted her teeth at the thought of the alternative.

***

Two nights later, Hawke sat outside of Anders’ clinic. She hugged her knees to her chest and stared at nothing. She hadn’t left Darktown since they had transported Fenris there. 

Anders had worked nonstop to heal the stab wound. The assassin had flanked Fenris from behind; no one had seen him. While Fenris was busy with the other three foes in front of him, the assassin slipped out his dagger and stabbed Fenris in the gut. Luckily, he had missed his mark by an inch or so, and Fenris’ vital organs were spared. The wound was deep, though, and Fenris had lost a lot of blood before Anders was able to patch him up.

He was still unconscious. At first, Anders kept the elf knocked out on purpose. It would help expedite the healing process, he claimed, and it wouldn’t hurt to keep the we-used-magic-to-fix-you thing a secret, for the time being.

But Anders had stopped using elixirs to keep him under the day before, and Hawke agonized over why he had yet to open his eyes.

If the group didn’t know there was something between them before, they sure did now. No one could miss Hawke’s unwashed face, her red-rimmed eyes, and the nightmares that kept everyone else in the clinic awake as she tried to sleep.

Hawke stood up to stretch her limbs. She’d been evicted from the interior of the clinic by every one of her companions, by a show of hands, because she was pacing and making them all nervous. Merrill was the only one that voted to let her stay inside and continue to pace. 

She heard the door open behind her, and suddenly, Anders’ familiar voice. 

“He’s awake,” the other mage said, and before Hawke could even fully register what that meant, she pushed past him and rushed to the room where Fenris had laid so lifeless for two days.

Now, his green eyes were open and he was propped up against some pillows. Hawke slowed as she neared him. She didn’t want to hurt him or distress him.

“I heard you gave them hell, Hawke,” he said, his voice thicker than usual.   
“I did,” she replied. “Literally. I threw fire at them.” She always reverted to jokes to hide her emotional state. She hoped Fenris didn’t notice.

“Can I sit?” she asked.

“Of course. Am I to deny the woman who saved my life?” he asked. 

Hawke perched on the edge of the bed so that she faced him. It felt so good to look at him and have her look back at her. Her fingers twitched; on an impulse, she reached out and grabbed his hand. 

All pretense of calm and confidence escaped her in that moment. She could feel her breath grow heavy; not quite to tears, but close. She stroked her thumb in small circles against his skin, careful not to touch any of the lyrium marks.

“I am so happy you’re safe, Fenris. I am so sorry,” she said, her voice dropped low. She wanted this moment to stay between the two of them. She could only imagine how many of their friends were listening on the other side of the wall.

“I would rather it me than you,” he said. His hand reached up to cup her face.

“I was so scared. None of us have ever been hurt that badly, you know?”

“Indeed. As Anders so frequently reminded me in the five minutes I was awake before he told you.”

“And to see you laying there on the ground, bloody…” she shivered. “I thought you were dead.” Her eyes dropped to their hands. 

“Do not think in what if’s, Marian,” he said. “I am still here. I am still with you.”

He laid his hand on her waist and pulled her to him. She laid against him and buried her face in his chest. He smelled more like medicine than usual, but underneath that were the familiar scents of iron, wine, and, more recently, honeysuckle. She breathed him in and felt comforted.

“Good,” she said, her voice muffled. “Because I would kill you if you died.”

He chuckled, and she loved the way the reverberations felt against her forehead. 

“I was so angry, you know. I lost my head. I may have actually _turned in_ to fire at one point. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to being a dragon,” she rambled.

“Your life’s great ambition. I am so glad I could help,” he said. He absentmindedly stroked her hair, as if it were a habit. 

Every move he made felt more significant to Hawke now. She wanted to soak him in. She couldn’t help but feel as if she had taken every moment they had spent together for granted. That she had almost lost him set ablaze a fire of longing for him; not in a sexual or even a sensual way, but just to be close to him, to hold him, to keep him safe. It felt like a gift to her.

It was in that moment that she realized she was in love with him.

They talked for a while, and the conversation quickly turned away from the morbid and into the jovial. Hawke never wanted to imagine not talking to him again.

After almost an hour, Hawke moved to sit up. “I should let you rest,” she explained, as she saw the confused expression in his eyes.

“I would...I would perhaps rest better. If you stayed,” he offered.

“Are you sure? Ask anyone here and they’d tell you I’m a _terrible_ sleeper. Something about mumbling ‘You dirty Carta bastards!’ over and over again,” she teased, but her heart leapt at the thought of his suggestion. He _wanted_ her to stay. He wanted _her._ He was the one who asked this time.

“I think I can handle it. I did just narrowly escape death, you know.”

Hawke settled back down next to him, so they were face to face, and tucked her knee between his legs. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and closed his eyes. 

“Thank you, Hawke,” he breathed. “Thank you does not suffice. I am so grateful for you.”

“Trust me. I’m the grateful one. And now that we’re on the subject of dragons...”

Hawke prattled off a story a story her mother used to tell her until his breath turned deep and even. Only then did she let the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lull her to sleep.


	5. Under His Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: NSFW, Smut
> 
> My re-imagining of what happened on the night all Fenhawke shippers love to hate. I can't quite bring myself to write what happens the next morning, so consider this part 1 of 2.

The sun dipped low over the horizon as the group headed back towards Kirkwall. Hawke enjoyed their trips back from the outskirts of the city. The buildings looked so small and humble from this vantage point, as if it were a toy village where nothing ever went wrong. The sky was tinted purple that evening. Only a few clouds hung in the sky, pink-and-orange tinted wisps that floated along amicably with the wind. The sea beneath them sat steady, tepid and nonthreatening, an unusual sight for the aptly-named Storm Coast. The scene before them was peaceful. Too bad Hawke and her companions felt anything but.

“Is anyone else getting a little run down by this whole _saving an entire city every day_ shit?” Varric huffed somewhere behind Hawke. 

“Not me,” she called back. “I love being repeatedly called on by the Viscount, beaten to a pulp, and blamed for all the problems our lovely city has to offer. How dare you complain, Varric?”

“Right. I especially love getting dragged out to walk through the wilderness every other day,” Varric said with disdain. Hawke always laughed at her friend’s aversion to nature. 

The team felt lopsided and fragile today. Isabela wouldn’t stop provoking Aveline into bickering matches, and Varric was never quite as pleasant when Hawke forced him outdoors. 

No one but Hawke had seen Fenris since he had killed Hadriana. Even when they had seen each other, it had been brief. He had seemed so troubled, then, and repeatedly questioned himself. Hawke had tried to console him, but he had left abruptly.

Hawke had wanted to follow him, to find and console him. But she knew it was better to let him process alone. She knew him well enough to know that he would come to her when he was ready.

But damn, did she wish he were here with them today. 

“Hanged Man tonight, Hawke?” asked Isabela as they arrived back in Kirkwall. Aveline had already split off, back to her duties. 

“I’m still trying to recover my losses from the last time,” Hawke said, only half-joking. “You know, the time you two got me drunk and took advantage of how bad I am at Wicked Grace?”

“Ha! She admits it!” Varric shouted. He and Isabela slapped hands. 

“I’m practicing. Next time, I’ll exact my revenge.” She stuck her tongue out at her friends and waved to them as they parted ways.

It had been a long time since Hawke had passed up a night with her friends, but her muscles ached and she longed to change out of her stiff, muddy armor. Not to mention the fact that she couldn’t get Fenris out of her head.

She pushed open the heavy door to her home and hurried upstairs to change. She shed the leather and metal and opted instead for clean undergarments and the soft, silken robe stitched with her family’s crest that she often wore around the mansion. She loved to evoke the ‘a lady doesn’t leave a bedroom looking like that!’ response from her mother. 

She decided to wander back downstairs to find something to eat before she called it a night. Before she even made it all the way back downstairs, she caught sight of a familiar her breath caught in her throat. 

Fenris stood next to her desk, idly looking over the papers that were scattered there. He heard her come down the stairs, and looked over at her. 

“Fenris. Are you alright?” she asked as she approached him. “I’ve been worried abo--”

“You say that nearly every time we’re apart. That you were worried about me.”

“I worry about everyone,” she said, trying to recover. The last time she had worried about him too much, after he had killed Hadriana, it hadn’t ended so well. “That’s how we’re all still alive.”

“Is that so? Because last week when Aveline asked for your help, you sent Merrill and Varric and said you were ‘kicking them out of the nest,’” he retorted, not inaccurately.

“Varric really needs to get over his fear of the great outdoors.” As close as she felt to Fenris, she sometimes had a difficult time reading him. He would disappear for days, then show up out of the blue. Kiss her for all of Hightown to see, then act cold towards her for days afterward. Her fingers itched to grab him and pull him to her. 

She dropped her eyes and took a deep breath. “The truth is, Fenris, that I do worry about you,” she admitted. “More than any of the others, more than myself. I will never stop worrying about you.”

They looked at each other for a split second, and suddenly Fenris closed the space between them, his mouth full and hot on hers. He shoved her against the nearest wall and pressed into her. His hands clutched at her waist.

Hawke slipped her hands underneath his shirt and dug her fingers into his lower back, drawing him as close to her as possible. His lips broke from hers and suddenly he was kissing her neck, her collarbone, her ears.

This was different than it had been in the past. Those kisses had been tentative, intimate but limited. These were hungry, craving. These were leading to something more.

“I have been thinking of you,” he breathed between kisses. “I have been able to think...of little else.”

In one quick motion, he untied her robe and let it fall to the floor. His arm encircled her waist as he pressed closer to her. He grazed his fingers across her stomach and she felt a shock of pleasure run through her.

She brought her hands up to his chest and pulled his shirt off. She kissed down his neck and down his abdomen. She had never seen his torso before, and she was struck by how lean and strong he was. Another rush of desire for him filled her head.

When she came back up to his mouth, and he pulled their bodies close again, she could feel him harden against her. She smiled, pleased at her work, and gently bit his lip.

Before she knew it, Fenris had lifted her from the ground, her legs wrapped around her waist. They kissed as he carried them upstairs. 

Hawke pulled back as they approached her bedroom door. “Is this okay, Fenris? Are you sure?”

He kissed her again and nodded. “I have never been so sure of anything in my life,” he said, and kicked open the door.

Fenris dropped her on the bed and pulled off her underwear. She watched as he undid his trousers and kicked them to the side. She had to keep herself from squirming with anticipation. She devoured the sight of him. She had never seen anyone so beautiful.

He crawled on top of her and hitched her leg to the side with his knee. He grabbed her inner thigh while he let his mouth explore her abdomen. With his other hand, he gathered her wrists and held both of her hands against the mattress above her head.

“Fenris,” she breathed through gritted teeth.

“Not yet,” he said.

His hand drew ever closer to the wetness between her legs. He shifted so that she could feel the length of him against her, and her hips jerked towards him.

“Fenris,” she moaned, louder this time. 

He moved against her, teasing her, and she wrapped her other leg around his back. 

He kissed her, full and on the mouth.

He pushed into her and she gasped. She arched her back to meet him.

“Fenris!” she screamed, and could focus on nothing but the waves of ecstasy that swept through her and the man she was sure she would die for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This my first time ever writing smut, so feedback would be MUCH appreciated! Thank you all for your continued support.


	6. Bar Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things between Fenris and Hawke aren't going well, and one drunk stranger is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was loud and raucous in the Hanged Man that evening. So many people that Hawke had never seen before, mostly men, were crowded in the pub, crashing their glasses together, singing songs of victory and freedom.

The Arishok was dead and the Qunari had, for the most part, fled. With no leader among them, most no longer saw the purpose of staying in Kirkwall. And so the city was finally free of their influence.

Hawke had been named the Champion of Kirkwall, but she didn’t feel like a hero. The Viscount was dead. Parts of the city were destroyed. Innocent people had lost their lives. Hawke felt they were little better off than the Qunari, but she kept that opinion to herself.

Instead, she drank. She celebrated and cheered and bought a round for everyone in the tavern. She joined in the victory songs and refused to play a hand of Wicked Grace. It had gotten around to most of the patrons of the Hanged Man how horrible she was at it, no doubt thanks to Varric’s wild exaggerations.

Varric was in the middle of his dramatic retelling of the events of Hawke’s duel with the Arishok. Hawke listened with a lazy smile painted across her face.

“...And then she turned around, drew her staff at him one more time. ‘Are you done now, Arishok?’ she asked. ‘Can you admit defeat?’” Varric did Hawke’s voice in a singsong, taunting imitation. His audience was rapt. “Of course, the big guy couldn’t stand that, so he charged at her as well as he could with a broken leg and blood gushing out of his left eye. Hawke laughed, pointed her staff right at him, and sent the death blow; the biggest damn ball of fire I have ever seen in my life. It was more blue than red, and scorching hot. I could feel it across the room…”

Hawke took a swig of her ale and rolled her eyes. The event, of course, had gone nothing like that, but she had learned long ago to let her friend tell his stories. The people of Kirkwall liked to hear them that way, and who was she to deny them that comfort?

It didn’t matter how it happened so long as the job got done. And as long as she was alive, she knew she would get the job done.

As Varric told his story, Hawke’s eyes caught movement at the door of the Hanged Man. She immediately recognized Fenris, dressed in black trousers and a loose white tunic. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him, but instead of fire, she felt ice settle in her stomach.

So much had happened since the night they spent together. After he left, hurriedly and with little explanation, she was sure she would never feel worse. And little more than a week later, her mother was murdered. And then the Viscount was killed and they almost lost Isabela. 

Fenris had been there for her after her mother was killed, and was there every step of the way as she and the rest of their friends were forced to deal with the Qunari problem. But every time she saw him, fresh feelings of shame and confusion sprouted in her lungs and grew there, making it hard to breathe when she was around him.

She finished her pint and set it on the table nearest her. She kept an eye on Fenris, who was standing near the doorway and chatting with Isabela. Uninvited jealousy joined the shame and confusion that already resided in her chest. Just then, Fenris looked over at her from across the room. Hawke busied herself with her gloves.

She’d had little time to sort out her feelings about what had happened between them, and they certainly hadn’t had an opportunity to talk about it. Hawke knew, in the back of her mind, that it had little to do with her, but it didn’t stop her thoughts from gnawing at her skull. No matter what he was going through, she wanted to help him. But he didn’t need, or maybe even want, her help. That much, he had made clear.

The memories of their night together, his skin hot against hers, their bodies perfectly in sync, the pure, unadulterated pleasure of finally being with him, would not leave her. Not even in this crowded, stinking pub.

Hawke approached the bartender and ordered another pint, which she quickly drank half of.

She felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to meet Fenris’ forest-green eyes.

“I thought I should introduce myself to the new Champion of Kirkwall,” he said. A smile touched the corners of his lips.

“Apostate mage turned Champion. Amazing what can happen when you’re good at killing things,” she said. 

Tension hung heavy in the air between them. An awkward urge to fill the silence tugged at Hawke’s vocal cords. She had always felt comfortable being quiet around him, something she felt with no one else. But not now. Now, it was all she could do to keep meaningless words from spilling out of her mouth.

Fenris stood a short distance from her, and her eyes searched the space between them as if a haze hung there. He seemed different to her now. He was still the same person; thick white hair askew, strong muscles always held taut and ready to attack, full lips still pulled into a slight frown. But there was something off. Something distant. Something about him was unrecognizable.

“I would like to speak to you, if you have a moment,” he said. He moved a step closer to her.   
Hawke looked around the room to avoid eye contact with him. “I’m not sure if that’s the best idea,” she said.

She looked up at him and saw hurt in his eyes. She bit her lip, searching for something else to say. 

“I understand,” he said. He began to walk past her, and laid his hand on her arm as he did. Just then, she noticed the silk bandana tied around his wrist. Her silk bandana. She would recognize the Amell crest anywhere, even though she could only see the edge of it, as he had tucked the rest into his shirt sleeve.

“Wait,” she said, and his grip tightened on her. “You can’t just walk off like that, Fenris. You’ve done that every time we’ve seen each other alone since -- “

“I am sorry my timing is inconvenient to you, Hawke.”

“Not everything is about _your_ timing. I can’t be expected to drop what I’m doing because it’s what you want. There are a hundred people here to celebrate with me --” her voice was raised now, along with her eyes. She stared at him, defiant.

“And I am the one who continues to make it about what I want, Hawke? Because there are a hundred strangers here, you cannot spare a moment?” Fenris’ eyes tightened into a glare.

“It’s not just about that, Fenris. You hurt me, and you don’t even seem to -- “

Just then, she was interrupted by the presence, and the stench, of a man she didn’t recognize. She barely glanced at him, and turned back to Fenris to continue their conversation, when the stranger proceeded to inch closer to them.

“Is this knife-ear botherin’ you?” the man slurred, his breath so heavy with alcohol that Hawke could smell it even though he was standing feet away. 

Hawke’s jaw tensed. She turned to face him. Fenris’ hand dropped from her arm.

“Hawke,” Fenris said. “Don’t.”

She tilted her head to one side, to let Fenris know that she heard him, but that she ignored his directive. No one was going to speak to her friends that way. No one was going to speak to _Fenris_ that way. 

“I don’t know if you’re too stupid to know who I am, or too drunk to care, or maybe some combination of the two. But I would suggest you back off,” she spat. She felt fire on her fingertips.

“What, your pathetic li’l knife-ear can’t speak for ‘imself?” The man’s attentions turned fully to Fenris. “Can you even speak? Ain’t you all illiterate?”

Before she knew what she was doing, Hawke’s body sprung into action. She grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady herself and punched him in the gut. She moved all of her force to her back leg and used her body weight to push him into the nearest wall. She pressed his neck up against the wall with one arm, her fist clenched. With the other, she pulled the knife that she kept on her belt and held it to his chin.

The noise in the Hanged Man clattered to a halt. 

Hawke was sure that, under normal circumstances, he would easily be able to get the drop on her. Now, though, as she let fire spark from her fingertips and burn whatever parts of him were in the way, all she could see was panic in his red-rimmed eyes and a trail of spit making its way out of his small, pursed lips.

Hawke’s chest heaved with fury. Her knife nicked his chin, just enough so that he would remember her words.

“If I ever see your face in this pub again, I will kill you,” she said, just loud enough that he and the people closest to her could hear. Her voice sounded more animal that human. “Now, kindly get the _fuck_ out of here,” she demanded, with one last uppercut to the stomach.

The man spit at her feet but knew better, as he looked around at the crowd and saw too many drawn weapons, than to do anything else. He knocked a pint of ale to the ground and made his escape.

Hawke slipped her knife back into her belt and looked behind her, to Fenris. Her eyes asked the question she didn’t dare say out loud -- _Are you alright?_ \-- and he nodded in response.

“It’s on me tonight, everyone. Don’t stop celebrating because of one little bar fight!” she yelled out, forcing some form of joy to her tone. She threw her coin purse on the bar, and the sound of cheers erupted. The party was back in full swing. As if nothing had ever happened.

She glanced over her shoulder at the place where Fenris had been standing. He was gone.

Her fist connected, hard, with the wood of the bar in front of her. Varric caught her glance.

“Kid, you okay? Wanna talk about it?”

“Not now, Varric,” she said through gritted teeth. She brushed past her friend, out the door, and into the cold embrace of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter! As always, comments make my world go 'round. Thank you all so much for your continued reading and support. You all make this so fun!


	7. I Remain At Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke searches Fenris out to reconcile what's left of their friendship. Good news is not around the corner.

The kitchen smelled of pastries and syrup, sticky sweet and comforting. The sun glared through the window, and its heat met that of the oven’s with familiarity. Sweat beaded on Hawke’s forehead, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. 

She loved the simplicity and the monotony of cooking. Since she had arrived in Kirkwall, she’d barely had any time to do so. And when she did, it had been with Fenris. Her eyebrows knitted together as she remembered the first time they had cooked together, right before she began to teach him to read. Nowadays, she was trying to lay low, and one of the few activities that could distract her from the rising tensions in her city was making her old family dishes again and again.

She turned her focus back to the dough on the slab in front of her. She sprinkled some flour on her hands and rubbed them together. She grabbed the hunk of dough and slammed it down, felt it begin to soften against her palms. Her hands worked without thought, her muscle memory taking control as she smoothed and spread the thick beige stuff across the counter-top, powdered white with flour. 

“In just a short while,” she said to the dough, “you’ll be a tarte. And then you’ll be delicious.”

Her long, thin fingers shaped the dough into crusts, then chopped the fruit she had bought that morning. Her knife sliced through each berry with ease, and a feeling of satisfaction swept over her. _Easier than cutting through a body,_ she couldn’t help but think.

She popped the tartes into the oven and stoked the coals underneath it. The sparks lapped at the bricks. Hawke thought of men on fire, running, screaming, from Lowtown as Kirkwall burned during the Qunari attack. It had been almost a fortnight now, but she still had nightmares.

When her tartes were finished, Hawke busied herself with packing a basket full of the other sweets she had prepared that morning. She plucked gingerbread, apple fritters, and small Orlesian cakes from their resting places on her countertops and wrapped them together in a red handkerchief. She settled the bundle into a small basket, and placed all but three of the tartes on top. 

She covered the whole thing with another handkerchief, this one white, and smiled down at her work. “Seems domesticity is my strong suit, and I didn’t even know it,” she muttered to herself.

The streets of Hightown were abandoned when compared to what they once had been -- where there had been clamor and cacophonous markets, there were abandoned carts and lonely vendors calling to no one. Where there had been abundant life, now hung the threat and the reminder of death.

Hawke tried to put those thoughts beside her as she walked the familiar path to Fenris’ mansion. Soon enough, she stood at the door, eye to eye with a door knocker in the shape of an owl. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath.

She knocked, and in a few short seconds (or was it years?) the face of the owl was replaced by Fenris’ strong features. He didn’t even look surprised to see her; his expression did not change as he took her in with his sharp green eyes. 

“Hawke?” he asked. “I did not realize we had anything to deal with today. I was not expecting --”

“No, sorry, we don’t,” she said. She held the basket out in front of her with both hands and smiled. “But there are sweets in here, and an apology.”

Fenris stood clear of the door and gestured for her to enter. She stepped into the threshold and waited for him to close the door behind her. She waited for his lead, and followed him to the study where they had spent so much of their time together. It almost felt like a different life now. Before her mother, and Hadriana, and the Qunari, and Meredith.

She set her basket on the table and played with her hands to distract herself. She looked around the room; not much had changed since the last time she had been there, save for a few new books on the shelves and a potted plant she had not seen before.

“You can sit, Hawke,” said Fenris, who already was. His green eyes seemed darker than normal, and his glance wandered around the room, distracted. 

Hawke perched on the nearest chair, if only to calm her nerves. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop her tongue from spitting incoherent words. What she said next, she knew would be crucial. She wanted -- needed -- to save her friendship with Fenris. The way she had been acting recently, she wasn’t sure if that were possible.

Before she could stop it, her tongue betrayed her. 

“I’m sorry, Fenris. I’m sorry I’ve been about as pleasant to be around as a swarm of bees recently. I haven’t been myself. Or, I have, I shouldn’t make excuses. But it was a fucking awful version of myself. I was hurt. But I shouldn’t have treated you the way I have been and I--”

She felt Fenris’ hand on hers, and her breath caught in her throat. His fingers squeezed hers, briefly, before he let go. 

“I do not blame you, Hawke,” he said. “You should not blame yourself.”

As his hand pulled away, back under the table, Hawke noticed a flash of red. Her ribbon. He still had it tied around his wrist.

“So,” she said, her voice lighter now, “still friends?”

His gaze settled on her face for the first time. He raised an eyebrow, so slight she barely noticed. “Friends,” he said, and looked at the door again. “Yes, Hawke. I remain at your side.”

Hawke felt the shadow of a smile touch her lips, but the fleeting feeling of elation was soon replaced with that of worry. Fenris was usually an engaged conversationalist, if not the most wordy person. He hadn’t sat still since they had entered the room, and now he was up, pacing the length of it like a tiger trapped in a cage.

“Is there something you’d like to talk about, Fenris?” she asked. She stood to reach out to him, but stopped herself. 

“Danarius. I believe Danarius may be in Kirkwall.”

Fenris stopped pacing. Hawke stopped breathing. Fire sparked at her fingertips at the thought of the magister who had long tortured the man she loved. She’d dreamt of killing Danarius since Fenris had first told her about what he suffered at the mage’s hands. 

“How do you know?” she asked, more a growl than a voice.

“I located my sister. I sent her money to come to Kirkwall. I believe it is a trap. It was a foolish thing for me to do,” he replied. His eyes lowered to the floor as he sank back into his chair. His hands went to his forehead.

Hawke knelt in front of him and laid a hand on his knee. “It was not foolish, Fenris. I would have done the same thing, if it were Carver. I think anyone would have. Is Varania here yet?”

“Yes,” he said. “At the Hanged Man.”

“We just can’t avoid that bloody place, can we?” Hawke joked, as always choosing the most inopportune time to lighten the mood.

“I suppose not.” Fenris finally turned his eyes to hers. “Will you come with me, Hawke? To see her? I do not know if he will be there or not, but I need to see her either way.”

Hawke nodded. “Of course I will. And if Danarius is there…?”

Fenris’ jaw clenched, and he stood up. Hawke followed suit. 

“If he is there,” Fenris breathed, “then I will be the one to kill him.”

She fought the impulse to hug him, but the look on his face made her lose that battle. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands small against his broad back. She felt his muscles relax into her embrace. 

The basket of pastries sat on the table, untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best work, but after a LONG break I felt like I just needed to get some words on paper and an update to my lovely readers! Thank you for sticking around this long -- I appreciate you all!


End file.
